I'm not actually gay
by naden
Summary: John/Sherlock slash on the way. Some memories just don't go away. Sherlock and John are growing apart and the detective can't get over the fact. Rated T for future chapters and safety.
1. The Girl

**My first fic in "Sherlock" universe. Forgive me my mistakes - english is not my native language. Also, I'll be thankfull for all your reviews.  
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**Sherlock and John belong to BBC.**

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><p><em>'Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but... for the record, if anyone out there still cares — I'm not actually gay.' He heard John Watson's voice<em>

_'Well, I am. Look at us both.' The Woman replied._

Sherlock opened his eyes. He wasn't sure why useless memories sometimes got stuck in his head. This dialogue was like the case he was working on – closed, with no further meaning or usage. Never mind. His brain was like a hyper-efficient super computer – not intended to play solitaire. He pushed the thought away and let himself slip into reality for a minute. Just to check if anything worth caring happened. First thing Sherlock heard was quiet clattering noise John's fingers were making every time he was posting something on his blog. Few clicks then long break. And again: fast clicking and a moment of silence. Finally, repeated sound of John's finger furiously hitting backspace key.

'Thinking of skipping the experiment part? Don't. It was particular entertaining moment.' Sherlock advised without getting up from couch, or even turning his head towards John.

Clicking noise stopped and only after a while he heard his flatmate.

'Excuse me…what? 'He asked with confusion.

'John, don't make me do that again, really. It's getting boring, even for me.' But John did not answer and Sherlock continued with concealed pleasure - on the contrary to what he just said. 'I hear you typing. Judging from the time it takes you, it's no email or ordinary blog note. You're writing about the case, making some pauses to think about next sentence, so definitely no email. It has to be our case, the last case, since you haven't mentioned it on-line yet. And listening a bit more I can tell your pauses are becoming longer, you delete most of the sentences written so it's obvious you're working on some hard part. What could have been difficult for you? The lab experience. And just now you've been hitting backspace key with such pertinacity that I presume, at the moment you're considering skipping the experiment. And I'm telling you – don't. It was fun.' Sherlock finally turned his head over smiling innocently.

'I-I wasn't writing about it.' John contradicted. 'It's just an email to my girlfriend' He stated somehow hesitantly.

'Nonsense.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Since…the boring teacher you haven't got one. And even if you'd have, there was no time for your relationship to develop so much you would write love emails to her, thinking over every single word. Besides, you're not the romantic type.' He passed off John's statement.

'I can be romantic if I want to!' John denied eagerly. 'And Alice was not a teacher. She worked as a journalist.'

'Still boring. But I was right.'

'Okay, I admit it. I am writing about Baskerville.'

'If Mrs Hudson was making bets over our conversations, she wouldn't need any lodgers here.' Sherlock straightened up on the couch and closed his eyes again.

'Sounds nice but don't share the idea yet. I'm going out tonight.' Sherlock opened eyes intrigued. 'With a woman. Well, as a matter of fact, I should probably be going right now.' John closed his laptop, stood up and walked out of the room smiling. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, his face wried with discontent.

It's always something, always, he thought hearing John Watson whistling as he was walking down the stairs.

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><p>John Watson was sitting in a café, wondering if it was bad to interpret facts about his meeting for Sherlock the way he did. He convinced himself, that none of what he told his flatmate was a lie. It was just a matter of interpretation and, well, context, which could be a bit…misleading. But he couldn't keep himself from doing that. That look on Sherlock's face, reminding him of a little boy, who didn't get the sweet he wanted, was totally worth it.<p>

The meeting, on the other hand, was just a courtesy. Some time ago one of his fans, Margaret Day, apparently an amateur writer, sent him a message, asking if he could find some time for a coffee and a brief chat about his life, as she found him a really inspiring prototype for her next novel's main character. John made a quick Facebook investigation, only to find 56 years old, average looking, happily married mother of two. She probably has just started her "career" and never published before, as he couldn't find any works of her, but he decided to help – because of a bloggers pride, sheer curiosity and boredom. Sherlock was frequently locking himself up in his mind palace last week and John was tired of the constant silence at 221B Baker Street.

'Mister Watson?' He heard his name. He rose from the chair he was sitting on. 'John, just John…' And he froze.

'I'm really happy to meet you. Margaret Day. But call me Yanmei.' A pretty Asian woman in her mid-thirties stood in front of him. Suddenly her future novel became very interesting.

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><p><em>New case. Meet me at 221b.<em>

_S_

11 minutes and 34 second. 35. 36. 37. John still wasn't replying. Case didn't exist. Or it ceased to exist an hour ago when Sherlock solved it. But that wasn't a point. The goal was to bring John back home. He got used to opening eyes and hearing him type or turn pages of a morning newspaper or just ask if he wants some dinner. Recently there was only wind, raising the curtains, persistent ticking noise of an old clock and almost suffocating silence filling their flat at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock didn't like it at all. But being alone wasn't the most annoying part of the situation. First of all, he could not understand John's behaviour. Why would he resign from the case or abandon half-solved ones as he did lately? 'Sorry, Sherlock, I've got to go. Think you'll manage this one alone, won't you?' And he was taking a cab, going away with no remorse, smiling, already thinking about something else. In fact, Sherlock knew the most possible answer. It was called "very boring journalist/writer/teacher or something" but he supressed this truth in his conscious.

Women. He never got that one solved. Truth be told, he never wanted to. They were all dull, mundane little beings. The Woman was only one he met, that surprised him and nearly seduced him with her boldness and intelligence. But that was an exception proving the rule. He didn't care about emotions or romance. There were no puzzles, no mysteries to reveal there. Sherlock presumed it was the reason he never fell in love (whatever it feels like - he only imagined) or considered himself a person without a heart at all. The only 'love' he had was for working on various problems, excitement when trying to defeat a criminal mind similar to his own, feeling cold thrill down his spine in life-and-death situations.

But then he met John Watson. Something definitely changed, though if asked, he probably wouldn't be able to specify what that was. Until the Baskerville case Sherlock couldn't even define who that man was to him. 'I don't have friends. I've just got one.' It slipped from his mouth unconsciously. Because, what does exactly friendship mean? Lending you laptop, sending text messages for you? Chasing a murderer down the street together? Laughing at the stolen ashtray? Or the word of appreciation he had never received before? 'Brilliant! Stunning!' He avoided admitting that it made him feel warm inside.

Suddenly, he heard front door being opened and closed with a loud noise. Footsteps on stairs. Laughing. Two voices. John and her.

'Is he here?' Sherlock heard her voice.

'No, he's probably solving the…' John stopped talking. Their footsteps became slower. And then he saw them as they entered the room kissing. She noticed Sherlock's presence first but still after a while.

'Oh! John, stop!' She pulled him away from herself.

'Sherlock! Weren't you supposed to be solving the case?' John asked, blushing with embarrassment.

'I was. It's closed. It's good to see you to.' He rose from the couch and put out his hand towards the woman. 'I'm Sherlock Holmes.'

'Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you. John was telling me a lot about you.' She smiled politely. 'I'm Margaret Day. But call me Yanmei.'

'But your tattoo says 'jia', doesn't it?' Sherlock replied with a grin.

'Excuse me?' Yanmei looked puzzled.

'Sherlock! Did you really have to? And how do you even know Chinese?' John asked, his voice filled with disappointment.

'No, it's fine. Tell me – how?' Yanmei asked.

'Oh, it's quite simple. You're Asian, born here – you have no accent. But it was not a Chinese family, which raised you and I deduce that from your name. Margaret – strongly British. Your foster parents wanted you to fill in our culture so much they even used prime minister to help. And you didn't agree. Hence your own, second name – Yanmei. In Chinese meaning someone seductive. You rebelled against them. Because your foster family was rich and reputable. You clothes are no second hand, aren't they? It also tells me, you inherited their whole fortune as the only daughter.' At those words his flatmate gave Yanmei a shocked look. 'And John, don't be angry, she would have told you…eventually. So… where was I? Ah, yes. Your name, again. Margaret, you didn't change it after they died although you could. This means you accepted their will eventually. Took the piercing out of your ears and nose and started acting like a proper family representative, running business yourself, because there was no one else, who could. Though you did yourself a tattoo, (yes, it pokes out of your shirt) which could be odd unless it's somehow contributed to your parents. What could remind you of your true identity and British family at once? Chinese ideogram for family, 'jia'.' He finished, almost suffocating after a reasoning that long.

'You're even better than Sherlock Holmes from John's stories, I admit.' She smiled and rolled up her sleeve. There was in fact a tiny ideogram on her wrist. 'I'm sorry John, I don't usually share this story on first couple of dates.' She apologised.

'Nothing happened. With Sherlock things tend to be different than usual.' He gave her a warm smile. 'It's really late. Do you wan't to go home? Because you can stay here…if you want'

She'll never agree to that. She's still a good, rich girl, Sherlock thought. But to his surprise she nodded.

'If it's not a problem? I'd be really glad. I am so tired…'

'Okay then!' John smiled happily. 'I'll stay here with Sherlock and my bedroom is yours. There's the bathroom. And ask me if there's anything you need.'

'Good night then, doctor.' Yanmei kissed him on a forehead making him blush. 'And you too, Sherlock.' She smiled and headed toward the stairs.

When they heard bedroom's door closing, John sighed loudly and smiled. Sherlock didn't understand that. She was Asian, of course, but as boring as every other one his flatmate brought home. He read her in a seconds, just like an opened book. She was nothing compared to the life he and John had before. But that excitement was lost now and his doctor seemed so…unfamiliar. What does that even mean? Again, he did not know the answer. Still it felt really bad somehow.

'Who sleeps where?' John asked.

'My bed is big enough for both of us.' Sherlock replied with a blank look.

'Oh… Okay. I guess it's better than a couch. And I hope you won't be kicking me and stealing my part of the quilt.' Sherlock did not reply. 'Alright then. Good night, Sherlock.'

When he realised that he's completely alone in the living room it was already hour later. He took a quick shower, thinking of a problem he could not solve. Hot water was evaporating from his naked body, as he was desperately trying to get rid of this cursed, unnamed feeling. He couldn't.

He opened the bedroom door quietly and saw John sleeping peacefully. It calmed him down. For a moment he, Sherlock Holmes, stopped thinking and lied down next to his doctor. Together. As it was back then. As it was supposed to be.


	2. The Need

**Well, the second part is here. :)**

**ATTENTION: I used some flowers symolism in this chapter. Probably everybody understands the meaning of roses (poor John, getting confused) but not all of you know the truth about blue irises. Well the meaning of those flowers is: _I have already forgotten._ Bear that in mind during the reading.**

**I tried to keep character's behaviour as likely as possible, adjusting their decisions and thoughts to what we know from series. Hope I did that well.  
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**I also apologize for all the mistakes, as always reminding you that I don't use english on a daily basis. ;)_  
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**Sherlock and John belong to BBC.**

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><p>The moment he opened his eyes, John had already known something was wrong. He turned to reach his mobile phone lying on the nightstand. He unlocked it to check the time and froze. Quarter past one. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. John was absolutely sure he set the alarm before he went to bed yesterday. The idea was to wake Yanmei up with a breakfast and hot tea but he failed pursuing it. She was already at work. So now was the time for plan B: calling her as soon as he could, meeting with flowers in his hand and apologizing. He rose with a loud sigh and looked to his left. The other part of the bed was empty. Sherlock had never slept much being the last one to go to bed and first one to get up early in the morning. So he could have at least told John, that his girlfriend (or ex-girlfriend now?) woke up and is about to leave (probably quite disappointed or angry about John's behaviour?).<p>

"John." He almost jumped at the sound of his own name being called. He immediately turned to his right. Sherlock was standing next to the window, his back to John.

"Sherlock? Why the h-"

"You're snoring. And you kick while asleep." He said and left the room with no further explanation.

John sighed again, louder. He stopped trying to understand his friend's demeanor some time ago. So instead of racking his brain over it, John dialled Yanmei's number praying, that she'd be willing to answer.

"Hello John." She sounded normally, bit absent-minded. But she was at work, right?

"Uhm…" He hesitated.

"I'm sorry, but I'm really busy at the moment. Is there something important you want to tell me now?" Fuck. She was angry.

"I'm really sorry about this morning. I really didn't want it to look like that. I… I care about and you're important, but I just… Oh, shit, can we just meet? Coffee? Anywhere you want. As soon as possible?" He cursed himself at the moment. How could one be so hopeless at apologizing?

"Okay. I'll text you the address. Be there in half an hour. Bye, John"

If she gave him another chance, John wasn't going to ruin it. He got ready as quick as he could. Finally he stood in front of a mirror, shaved, his teeth brushed, even in a purple shirt instead of the usual jumper, checking carefully for anything that could ruin his look. Finding nothing, he headed towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, I'm leaving." He called out of custom. No one replied. But John's mind was busy thinking of something else.

Roses? Or lilies? No, roses were good. Which colour then? He wasn't good at symbolism. As an army doctor he knew how to stitch up the wound, fix broken bone or even repair a 'broken' heart. But meaning behind colours? Sherlock would know. Perhaps John should have called him? No. No, Sherlock anymore. No more girlfriends dumping him because of his flatmate, alleged 'boyfriend'. This time it was almost perfect and he was going to make it work. By himself. He forced his brain to remember the meaning of every rose colour he ever heard of. Yellow? No, it was envy or anger? White was good for weddings. Violet, pink and orange all mixed up – he couldn't tell the difference. And there was red. But a red rose meant something big and serious. Love. It took him some time to accustom to this word. Was he in love in Yanmei? They went on a couple of dates and it felt good. She was intelligent, warm and good in bed. Oh, god, bed. Maybe that's what it was about? She expected him to sleep with her? But leaving Sherlock downstairs just like that would be…rude. Even for someone as socially indifferent as his flatmate was. No, he could not do that. His thoughts went back to the colours. Love meant attachment. But did he feel that way? Was she the one and only in the whole world?

"Excuse me, sir? Anything you'd like to buy?" Voice of a florist startled him. He quickly looked around, over the roses, lilies and found a big bouquet of blue irises.

"I'll have these, please."

With flower in one hand he rushed to the meeting. Just when appearing from behind the corner of a building, he saw Yanmei. He slowed down, straightened his jacket and neatened hair. She looked really beautiful. Chic and self-confident businesswoman.

"Hi, John." She greeted him but did not kiss.

"Hi. I brought these for you. Just to say… Never mind. Let them speak louder than my words." He passed her irises with a warm smile.

"I see…" She smiled but somehow sadly. He didn't understand why. "Let's have a sit, alright?" She invited John to a free table.

"Well, I just wanted to-"

"John. Listen to me. I'm not angry. I'm a bit disappointed and really, really sad. To be honest, that kind of situation has never happened to me before." John stiffened, not quite understanding if oversleeping was such an uncommon thing to do. "You could just tell me."

"Wait. Tell you…what?" He was puzzled.

"About you and Sherlock." She stated really seriously.

"Oh, god, no. Not again. Me and Sherlock – we're not a couple. And I hoped you realized, I'm not actually gay. Why did you even think of it?" He smiled, thankful that her problem was not his behaviour but rather some kind of rumour he could easily get rid of.

"I saw you two. In bed."

"We were just sleeping together. Not to choose, who would end up on the couch. There's nothing more to it."

"Last time I saw you, you were not just sleeping. He was holding you tight… And you… You were calling his name. I couldn't see your faces from the door but that was enough. And I left you a note. Didn't you read it?"

"Note?" John desperately tried to recall presence of any note at 221B. "I-I haven't seen any note. But please, believe me – whatever you have seen or you think you have seen is not like that. We're mates, we solve crimes together. Maybe you've seen it wrong? Or it was Sherlock's prank? I'll definitely have to talk to him." He felt anger boiling inside him.

"No, John, don't." She shook her head, tiny strands of hair falling of her perfect hairdo. "I had time to think about it and I decided."

"No, Yanmei, please don't. I-I…" If there was any time to say it, it was now. One and only occasion. In a minute everything would be lost. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't say those two words. Why?

"No, shhh…" She put a finger on his lips. "Don't. I know you don't love me. I also know that I do and I want you to be happy. That's what love is about, right?" He wanted to say something but she didn't let him. "I can see that you like me, a lot. But your heart will never belong to me. And that's something I need. I do need attachment. When we meet, though, you're often so absent-minded. Of course, at first you're happy to see me and I feel like the only one for you… But whenever the message from him comes, I feel you're fighting your inner self not to text back, not to come and join your detective at the crime scene." Maybe it was just his imagination, but he saw tears in her eyes. She really cared.

"Yanmei…"

"John, it's not about sexuality. You're an excellent lover and in bed I felt like I really had you for myself only. But that's too little. I can't be just a mistress to you."

"You're not. You're a… friend." He wasn't sure about saying that.

"I think I'm going to be soon." She rose from her chair. "Just now I need some time to…stop loving you. But when I'll move on, I'll be really glad to become one." She smiled and John was sure, that now she was trying to stop tears streaming down her face. "Bye, John." She said quietly and left.

"Would you like anything to drink, sir?" The waiter showed up with a menu. John expected himself to be more devastated. He should have smashed the flower vase standing on the table, shouted angrily at the poor waiter or just burst into tears. He didn't do anything of those things.

"I'd have a tea, please." He was angry but perfectly still. Not a single tear coming to his eyes. Was that because she was another one that dumped him suspecting a relationship with Sherlock? Maybe. But then, wasn't she special to him? Apparently he was just a soldier with a heart hardened by war experiences. It sounded reasonable and John wanted to believe it was the right explanation.

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><p>The feeling was growing. He could feel it like a tumour in his chest, aching weirdly every time he remembered. Was he growing too attached? And if so, why wasn't he able to stop it? He despised that part of himself, that wouldn't let the feeling disappear. He despised his own mind for keeping such a ridiculous emotion alive. He knew he wanted to get rid of it but on the other hand his love for puzzles made him wanted to 'solve' the feeling like a riddle. When one gets the answer everything becomes clear, rational. Sherlock Holmes wanted to feel rational so badly at the moment. Even boredom was better than that. It was at least something he was accustomed to. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. He recalled his own brother saying. And then the images started to project themselves in his head. Again - he remembered.<p>

_It was early in the morning. He could hardly fall asleep that night. John was snoring really loud and kicking. Just when he wanted to wake his flatmate up he heard him calling a name. His own name._

_"Sherlock. Sherlock…" John was wriggling anxiously in his sleep, probably having one of his war nightmares. But why did he call his name then? Sherlock was wondering, not really knowing what to do in that uncomfortable situation, when he saw John's arms reaching towards him, wrapping around him and holding him close. He felt John's fingers thrusting into his back, shaking, causing him pain. But he didn't make a single move. He was caught in that moment of intimacy and a close body contact – something he never experienced before. Not in such way. He hesitated for a long time but when he realised John wasn't going to let him go, he carefully and really awkwardly embraced his only friend. It felt strange to touch someone, feel warmth of another human being, its breath and heartbeat. John's was just so unnaturally fast. Sherlock instinctively moved closer in gesture of protection._

And now, when he was alone, he hated himself for doing that. Instincts were hidden in subconscious and it meant he wasn't able to control them. But more importantly, they triggered emotions – something he didn't want to have in his life. Particularly that one damned feeling he couldn't name.

Suddenly he heard footsteps on the stairs. Steady, loud. It was John.

"John, I have a note for you." He called as he saw his flatmate. John stopped, but didn't turn over

"Bit too late for that now, isn't it?" He stated spitefully and went upstairs without a word more.

And suddenly Sherlock knew exactly the name for his feeling. It was need. An overwhelming need of contact, touch and intimacy. Need, that only his friend, John Watson, could satisfy.

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><p><strong>I'm glad you've read it. Reviews will make me even happier :)<strong>


	3. The Fall

**Guys, I'm terribly sorry for making you wait that long. First I got to finish my exams (but I passed, yay!) and then I was really struggling when writing this chapter. It was extremely hard for me to find a right way and words to describe all that I had to say about the events, which take place there. Hopefully now the hardest part is behind me and writing next chapter will be a lot quicker (at least I hope so).**

**The way I wrote that part might seem a bit odd to you, but I decided it was the best way to include all the little scenes from series in my story. So I wrote Sherlock's flashbacks in present tense to sort of underline them. If anything's unclear - just write. I'll be happy to answer all the questions.**

**+story is also available at my AO3 account (the same nickname), where I'll probably be moving. For now I post on both sites.  
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**As usual I do not own Sherlock, John, Mycroft and the rest of wonderful Doyle/BBC chcracters.  
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><p>After a while Sherlock quietly followed John upstairs. Need was consuming his mind, driving him insane, like a moth that's dangerously close to the burning lamp but cannot help it. Stairs were creaking with every step he made, as if trying to warn him, stop him when it still wasn't too late. But Sherlock knew John wouldn't hear a thing. Tender, almost piercing sounds of classical music came out of John's room through the half-opened door – loud enough to drown out all the noise. Violin, of course. He noticed John enjoyed those little violin 'recitals' Sherlock gave sometimes in an outburst of anger or just from pure boredom. His friend was always carefully listening to whatever he played, closing his eyes and smiling slightly whenever he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. But this particular piece was unfamiliar to him. Something temporary, for sure. But what could it be? He had never troubled himself to know his flatmate taste, never needed to. Maybe if he paid more attention to it, he could sometimes play something especially for John… No. Why would he want to do that? No. It was the time to stop this madness. Turn back and do something…useful. But it was already too late. He was standing in front of John's bedroom. Warm light of an old-fashioned beside lamp was casting tangled, angular shadows over the furniture. Sherlock leaned out a bit to see more, but the small gap between the door didn't make for a good peephole. Slowly and carefully he opened it a little. What he saw sent a shiver down his spine. John was standing by his bed, shirtless, his back turned towards Sherlock. Dark shadows emphasised doctor's constitutions as his shoulders were mowing up and down in the rhythm of his breath. It wasn't the first time Sherlock saw a half-naked body – there were plenty of them in the morgue. This one, though, was different – warm, alive. Seconds were passing as he stood hypnotised, studying every inch of John's skin, every twitch of his muscles with a growing desire to reach out and touch him. And then suddenly John turned away.<p>

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><p>The moment John saw Sherlock lurking at the door, he almost jumped. His flatmate never made it to this floor, so he was the last possible guest to expect here, after Elvis Presley and the queen herself.<p>

"God, you scared the life out of me. To what do I owe this pleasure to see you in my humble abode?" He asked ironically. Something was definitely out of order. After a while he noticed a strange kind of tension chiselled in his friend's pale face and his dilated pupils. "Mate, is everything okay? Are you on something?" Instead of answering the question Sherlock approached John.

"Seriously, Sherlock, whatever the case is, you shouldn't d-… Sherlock?" John sensed his private space being invaded. Detective's eyes were less than 20 centimetres away from his, piercing him with an unbearably intense look. He was so close, John could feel warmth of his breath. What was he aiming at? Another experiment? Then everything happened like in slow motion. John's palms went cold when he saw Sherlock slowly raising his hand. The music quietened down. Now he could clearly hear his own heart racing as Sherlock's fingers were almost touching his face.

"Stop it!" He yelled, louder than he wanted to. Sherlock immediately withdrawn. John felt his cheeks burning red with embarrassment. "It seems that one simple fact escaped everybody's notice, so I'll repeat: I'm not actually gay." He audibly accented three last words. "And whatever your experiment or joke is, I don't find it funny. So just stop." He finished with his voice slightly shaking.

John could swear that for a fraction of a second there was a deep sadness in Sherlock's eyes then quickly replaced by his usual cryptic expression.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He stated calmly. "Since you're not in the mood, I'll leave it here." He put a small piece of paper on the bed and left.

John picked up the note with a delicate female handwriting creased it and tossed it into the bin without reading. Then he fall heavily onto the bed. Gentle sounds of violin concerto in the background were fading as he was trying to calm his heartbeat. He closed his eyes making a silent promise to bury the memories of this evening deep in his mind.

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><p>Funny how life sometimes resembles a very poorly written novel – the fact occurred to Sherlock as the images of past few weeks were flashing before his eyes. Seconds stretched like a gum into minutes, hours, days.<p>

One.

_Apparently there's nothing, that can't be done with a proper amount of cigarettes and… other stimulants. John Hamish Watson can be called a concern no more. Sherlock's mind is alright again, racing like a latest Lamborghini. New cases are flooding 221b: emails, letters, postcards, telephones, texts. He loses interest in all of them as soon as they become obvious, mundane. Cheating wife, jealous cousin, underpaid employee – the usual. Ordinary people with their ordinary problems are no harder to deduce than Lestrade's morning breakfast. The world however seems to have found a new celebrity in a person of Sherlock Holmes. Pictures of now famous consulting detective in his distinctive deer stalker hat appear in every magazine and informational website. But that all doesn't matter to him. Secretly, he's been waiting for that one text to come. "Come and play." The old-fashioned villain is back. Now the game is really on._

Two.

_As their eyes meet, Sherlock already knows he disappointed John. And at the same time impressed him, reading the jury members like an open book. John licks his lip, trying to keep a serious face – a father attempting to scold his son knowing the boy has outsmarted him. Sherlock smiles. These little things he does just to see that amazed look of John's. He can almost hear him say: "Brilliant! Extraordinary!" Sherlock's gaze slides cursorily round the courtroom. The couple in jury-box still can't look at each other, embarrassed, prosecutor stares rather confused and the judge, well, he's about to throw Sherlock out. Jim Moriarty is also standing there with a suspicious grin. As for the man who is soon to be convicted he seems oddly composed, almost relaxed. But is he defeated? No, a spider like he always keeps few aces up his sleeve. Which will he use this time? Sherlock can't wait to see._

Three.

_The cards are slipping from his hands. This is not how this game should look like. Sherlock Holmes is losing. People are turning away from him. After all, it's what people usually do, right? There's only one man left, who clings to his conviction of Sherlock's innocence so hard, that he is now cuffed with him, accompanying in this rather lousy situation. John Watson has always been by his side. And that's why Sherlock grabs a police radio. An unbearable banshee-like sound tears up the police bustle around them. With a dazed police officer's gun Sherlock takes John and starts to retreat." Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Nobody moves. He shoots in the air twice. "Do as he says!" He can hear Lestrade shouting. "Just so you're aware, the gun is his idea, I'm just a... you know." John says with insecurity in his voice. Sherlock puts a gun to his head. "My hostage." He pulls John closer. "Hostage, yes, that works. That works." They make it to the corner. "So what now?" John asks, still unsure. "Doing what Moriarty wants, becoming a fugitive. Run!" So they run. Sherlock tells himself it's because of excitement, thrill of being an outlaw, but this strange sensation in his stomach is oddly familiar. He looks at John trying to keep up and the sensation intensifies. Now he knows for sure. The need is back and puts in his mouth words he would have never said himself. "Take my hand." It's dark and hopefully John won't notice him blushing as he will give him an 'are-you-insane' stare. But, to Sherlock's surprise, not only John doesn't look his way; he also grabs his hand and holds it so tight that it almost hurts. " Now people will definitely talk." It makes Sherlock really want to smile, but he keeps his face dispassionate. Few minutes later they approach high railing but there is no time to think the moves through. Sherlock aims at the fence and jumps over it almost effortlessly. "Sherlock, wait!" Sudden grip on his coat pulls him back and John's face appears in front of his, dangerously close, making him shiver. He looks at his best friend. John is breathing hard with his mouth open and eyes focused on Sherlock. "We're going to need to coordinate." For a second completely ridiculous thought goes through Sherlock's head - to lean closer and feel the warmth of John's lips - but he immediately chases it away. "Go to your right."_

Four.

_Darkness surrounds him. It's thick and warm, like a blanket. Sherlock enjoys that simple observation. He feels safe now and he can put his mind to rest if only for a few minutes. As surprising as it is, he also feels tired. It's so utterly human and at the same time very alien sensation. It's been more than two days since his last short nap, however there's no time for relax. The game isn't over yet and now it's his turn to play. The door slowly opens letting a small ray of light inside. Molly comes in, switches the lights on. There's something she is looking for but she doesn't find it. Click. The lights go off again as she rushes towards the exit. "You're wrong, you know?" Molly jumps at the tone of his voice. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." It goes hard. Words are stuck in his throat. "But you were right. I'm not OK." "Tell me what's wrong." She looks at him with her big eyes and he knows that no matter what he says next she has already decided to help him. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."_

Five.

_The one last look at the world as it was up to now. One last look at the sky of London, its streets, cars, pedestrians. He didn't want it to end that way and the plan B was never meant to be used. But Jim Moriarty's final move left him without a choice. It's just a small step, he keeps telling himself, everything's arranged, it's safe. But there's a terrible pain in his chest, as he looks down there the last time. His heart, which existence he has always denied, is aching when he sees John, **his** John, still standing where he asked him to, always so loyal, no matter what. He doesn't know yet that in a second his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is going to hurt him, to burn the heart out of him. The last solitary tear drops at his shoes, as Sherlock throws his phone and takes a step forward._

Six.

He closed his eyes. Wind was blowing through his curly dark hair. Was that how pioneers of aviation felt, rushing to the ground, already knowing that their experiment failed, that this was going to be their last flight? Were the missed opportunities, chances they did not grab at the right moment flashing before their eyes too? All the paths they could take but somehow chose not to, thousands of parallel realities. In all of Sherlock's he would be with John. They would still live together at 221b, solve cases. Sherlock would wait for John to come from the clinic, maybe even cook a dinner sometimes (but only on special occasions) and they'd spend evenings together. That's what normal people do, he supposed. They sit together doing ordinary boring things, they cuddle, they kiss...

In the last moment he heard John calling his name. He fought the urge to open eyes and have a last look at his friend. It was too late for that. The new life waited for him to start. A life after death.

* * *

><p>Funny how life sometimes resembles a very poorly written novel – this bitter truth occurred to John as he was standing over Sherlock's grave, trying to hold back tears – main hero dies fighting his archenemy and trying to protect his best friend, who can't help him. Because that's what happened two weeks ago. John Watson wasn't stupid. He knew Sherlock Holmes as good as one can know a person, with whom he lives and works for 18 months and he trusted him. Sherlock was no fake but a brightest mind he ever met and John couldn't believe any of his last words were truth. And that meant only one thing: Sherlock jumped, because he had to, because there were lives at stake. Probably John's life. And he hated that. He hated being a survivor.<p>

There was one thing about surviving most people didn't know. It never smells like victory, it doesn't taste sweet. For every life that is saved there is at least another one lost – that's what war taught him. He learned it when that young boy got shot along with him. What was his name? Tom, Tim? It was his belly. He was bleeding out and the bullet made damage so huge, there was nothing John could do as a doctor. That soldier died on his hands just as reinforcement troops came to rescue them and left him with a question burning in his head. "Why me?" He didn't even know this man, yet he never stopped wondering what if they switched places, what if one of them was standing just one meter to the left, if he kneeled one second earlier.

And there he was, left alone again. Not by some unnamed man this time, but by best and closest friend he ever had. At first he thought about all possible scenarios in which Sherlock could have miraculously escape death. But then he saw this hard, cold tomb with golden engraved letters and in that moment all the hope he had left abandoned him. John watched Sherlock rise, John watched him fall, John saw him lifeless on a pavement. It was over.

Somehow the moment he turned and started walking home a memory he hid deep in his mind escaped and flickered before his eyes. His behaviour – rejecting and shouting at his friend that evening - seemed so stupid and childish in retrospect. Truth was John would let Sherlock do anything now if he could get him back in return.

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><p>Sherlock was looking at John leaving the graveyard, when he felt vibrations in his pocket. New text – probably from Mycroft. He hesitated, but eventually decided to check it.<p>

_I don't think you are in Brazil._

_I checked it._

_Twice._

_MH_

Sherlock frowned and sighed loudly but quickly texted back his foolish brother.

_Got business to dispatch._

_SH_

The reaction was immediate.

_At the graveyard?_

_Wonder what kind of business that is._

_MH_

Sherlock stuffed the mobile angrily back into his pocket and looked around. John was nowhere to be found.

_Never mind._

_Get me the plane. I'm ready._

_SH_

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><p><strong>Thanks for<strong>** your attention****! I'll try to post next chapter as soon as possible. Reviews = love, love, love.  
><strong>


	4. The Guest

**Sorry to keep you waiting guys! I decided to bring Yanmei back to life for this chapter - I quite like her to be honest. :) I hope you'll like my little twist of the story at the end. :)**

**All the characters (except for Yanmei) belong to BBC ans ACD. **

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><p>'You have to do it!' John yelled angrily forgetting about opened door. Suddenly everybody at police headquarters started paying attention to their discussion.<p>

'John, calm down, please.' Lestrade asked quickly shutting the door and unwinding the blinds.

'He helped you so many times, selflessly, when you were all in a dead end and that's how you repay him?' He just couldn't believe it.

'John, please, listen to me.' Lestrade said slowly, emphasizing words like when talking to stubborn child. 'I'd really like to help you but after last incidents I'm this far from not being detective inspector anymore'. He gestured in a vigorous manner. ' Besides, Sherlock is... Let's just say he's not needing it anymore.' Lestrade casted his eyes down.

It was too much for John.

'Of course he's needing it!' He hit the desk with his fist spilling DI's morning coffee. 'How much alive, in your opinion, one has to be to deserve his name to be cleaned?' He asked ironically.

'That's not what I meant you know th-'

'I don't care what you meant and what policies and directives were given. If you have any evidence proving Moriarty was real, you have to make it public.'

'We can't do it. The investigation is ongoing and any press conference held at the moment could jeopardize it!.' Lestrade was polite but definite.

'Then I'll do it on my own.' John stood up, took his jacket and headed towards the door.

'John, don't. It will bring more harm than benefit to the-'

But John wasn't listening to Lestrade anymore. He rushed across the corridor. People were stopping conversations, looking at him curiously. He heard them whispering. John knew that believing in Sherlock's innocence put him in minority. Especially here, among police officers, everybody easily believed in stories about Richard Brook - in past they were attacked and mocked by late consulting the most. Revenge was sweet. Though the rumours were not John's biggest concern now. He really wanted to prove them wrong. The problem was, he hadn't got evidence needed.

John left the building quickly, glad to finally breathe fresh air. He felt dizzy and his stomach rumbled loudly. He was weak. In a past few weeks he did everything to occupy his mind (taking additional patients at the clinic, trying to conduct his own investigation (with a worse than poor result) and even helping Mrs. Hudson at tiding up the other part of the house. John suspected she wanted to take another lodger, but didn't dare to offer Sherlock's room to anyone. He was glad she decided to solve it this way. Renting that bedroom meant organising Sherlock's belongings and John wanted them to stay where they were when Sherlock was still...alive. His therapist considered doing it a necessary step to move on. But John suspected she was wrong again. What if he didn't wanted to adjust to new reality? What if he just wanted to hold on to what was left?

Suddenly he heard phone vibrating in his pocket. It was unknown number that has been calling him a dozen times lately but he decided to answer it now.

'John Watson speaking. Who am I talking to?'

'John? Oh, god, I'm glad I hear you!'

'Yanmei? Is it you? Have you changed your number?' John was genuinely surprised.

'Yes and I've tried to reach you for weeks but you've never answered. I was afraid that...'

'Oh, no. No. I'm...okay.' A okay as a man who lost his best friend can be, he added in his head.

'I was wondering if you'd like to meet me for a dinner?' She asked hesitantly.

'I don't feel like showing in any restaurant.' He learned to avoid public places. Paparazzi were everywhere just waiting for a cheap news they could sell to the tabloids. But his stomach was screaming louder and louder.

'It's alright. I can come to your place and maybe we can cook something together? As long as it's fine with you...'

'It is. In an hour at 221b?'

* * *

><p>Yanmei arrived punctually with all the ingredients needed to prepare a traditional Chinese meal. On the contrary to what she said before, she forbade John to enter the kitchen and started preparing dinner on her own. So there was uncomfortable silence in the flat interrupted only by occasional jingling of pots or knives.<p>

'So, how are you coping without him?' She asked quietly after a while. It was a direct question. But on the other hand, she had never been beating around the bush and that's what John used to like about her.

'I don't know.' He answered surprised by his own frankness. 'I really have no idea.' Yanmei silently kept on chopping vegetables as if she was letting him to talk all of his heart's content. John didn't know why, but he continued.

'I heard somewhere...' He stopped, looking for words to express his thoughts. 'Someone told me once, that in hard times the thing that can keep you sane is routine.' He sighed loudly. His voice was trembling. 'So I get up every morning, I shave, I go to work, I read paper, watch telly... Just like I should, just like I have done all my life. But somehow, I don't think it helps, you know?' Yanmei stopped chopping and looked at him with sadness in her eyes but remained quiet.

'Sometimes I feel like a coward, running away from what's unavoidable. Because the truth is, Sherlock is dead. Dead.' John repeated this word like he had been learning it, ensuring that he remembered its meaning. 'Yet here I am, surrounded by his belongings, symbols of his life, of our life, unable to move them. Like if I only touch them, all the memories will disappear as if they never existed.' He got up and headed towards the wall. Just above the fireplace, where Sherlock used to pin up photographs and documents relating to cases they worked on, there was now a small collage he did by himself. It consisted mostly of clippings from various magazines with stories about Richard Brook and other related things he managed to find. In the centre of that little visual map there was a photograph cut out of some local newspaper: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson together after solving the case, that made detective's name. John was facing the camera, smiling, whereas Sherlock was caught looking at him.

'He had all the life ahead.' John whispered touching his friend's face in the picture, his blue eyes and distinctive cheekbones doctor used to laugh about so many times. But he wanted to feel soft, warm skin under the fingers, not a rough paper. First tear which hit his cheek almost burned him. John didn't cry a single time since he had visited graveyard 3 months ago. Now his whole body started to shake from emotions that accumulated through that time.

All of a sudden he felt arms embracing him tight, steady against his trembling figure.

'You loved him.' Yanmei said quietly, still holding him. 'You still do.' And John fall apart. He could no longer stop the tears, overwhelmed by sadness and helplessness. How could he have not known? How could he have realised it when it was too late? He sank in Yanmei's arms, feeling emotionally naked and small.

* * *

><p>Air in São Paulo remained hot and stifling , even though the summer was about to give its place to autumn. Sherlock Holmes was looking at himself in the mirror standing in one of the shop-windows. These 3 months and 2 weeks had certainly changed him: his hair were shorter and brighter now, looking a bit reddish in sunshine and his skin, once pale and almost transparent, gained a healthy shade of peach. Dressed in a dark sunglasses, flowered shirt, plain shorts and sandals he looked indistinguishable from hundreds of tourists wandering through the streets of this crowded city. Sherlock was about to be setting off, when his phone vibrated.<p>

_Playtime is over. _

_It's time you come home._

_MH_

He barely glanced at the message and switched his mobile off. As usually, his brother did not have the faintest idea about the rules of the game. It wasn't in Sherlock's blood to act like a cringing refugee. He used every second of his temporary immigration to investigate even the smallest leads to Moriarty's web. It was only rational to assume that its threads were spread out all over the world. So he could have started tracking them down here, in Brazil, as well. It appeared promising from the very start but as with every deduction process, one had to confirm and thoroughly eliminate every false conclusions, narrowing down the number of possibilities. In the end he was left with only few of them, which turned out to be dead ends - all but one. Man, who introduced himself as Samaritan, agreed to meet and provide Sherlock with some valuable information about the web. Of course detective didn't really believe in unselfishness of this offer - everything in the world has its price, after all. But having brother in British government was a trump card he intended to play.

When he arrived at a small square, with few trees and benches Sherlock stopped and carefully looked around. Finally he found what he wanted to: man in his mid-fifties, dressed in sunglasses and turquoise shirt sitting on one of the benches, holding his dog on a leash. Sherlock approached him and sat by his side. They remained silent for few minutes and then the man stood up, spread a pocket cane and slowly walked away, following his dog. He was blind. Sherlock reached underneath the seat and felt small piece of paper under his fingers. He took it and quickly hid in his pocket.

Though it was hard to keep back from checking the note right away he didn't do it until he found himself safe in his flat. Time, date and address - that was all, but it made Sherlock smile. He fell heavily onto the sofa feeling tiredness and pleasant satisfaction This was just a promise of a meeting but at the same time first real step ahead he had taken in months. Even the ringing phone couldn't have spoiled it.

'I didn't receive any answer from you.' Mycroft stated the obvious. He really didn't know when to give up.

'How was your dentist appointment, dear brother?'

'Fine.' Mycroft replied seething.

'Oh, judging by the way you speak it was quite the other way round.'

'Stop playing, Sherlock.' There was strange tension in his brother's voice, not just the usual self-assertion. 'Meeting with Samaritan, even if it's going to take place, won't give you information crucial to identifying Moriarty's web.'

'And how would you know that?' Sherlock replied resentfully as if Mycroft had just have broken his new toy.

'It's simple. Moriarty's web doesn't exist.'

'Oh, I see what you mean.' Sherlock smiled again. ' I have to admit that such an appreciation for our late consulting criminal coming from your mouth is a bit surprising. And I'm sure a man like Jim Moriarty had it all meticulously planned, so the moment he pulled the trigger every single thread of his web disappeared into thin air. But ordinary people are too unreliable for that plan to work. They are greedy, cowardly, guided by utmost emotions - like a weakest link even in the strongest chain.' And he just had found that particular link here, in Brazil.

'What about John?' Mycroft asked nonchalantly leaving Sherlock without a clever riposte. 'Those were hard months for him. Putting up with a death of best friend and his disgrace, constant fight with all the accusations. How long are you going to test his loyalty?' Sherlock felt sudden sting in his chest. Guilt?

'Goodbye, Mycroft.' He cut off the talk coldly.

'Sherlock, listen to me just once. I helped police collecting all evidence necessary to clear your name and they're waiting to make it public. All they need now is your comeback. Don't extend your exile when it's utterly useless.'

'I said, goodbye, Mycroft.' Sherlock ended call and turned off his mobile. He spread himself on the sofa and closed his tired eyes for a moment. Then he took his laptop from a coffee table and opened it - there was a video stream from a poor quality video camera placed at 221b. Sherlock installed it long time ago to carry out one of experiments but quickly forgot about it. But now, thousand miles away from home, he was watching its stream all the time: John eating his breakfast, watching telly, reading newspaper. At the moment he sat motionlessly on the sofa, staring at the wall. There were two dirty plates and sets of cutlery on the table, so someone visited him. Who was that? Never mind - John was the most important now. From the place he installed the camera, he could see his friends face - so tired and dispassionate.

'John...' He whispered touching the screen.

* * *

><p>He woke up with a scream. It was dark and he was in his bed, but sounds of battlefield were still in inside his head and the pictures were flashing before his eyes. The same dream was hunting him since Sherlock's death: he was in Afghanistan, holding young bleeding soldier in his arms; they were surrounded, waiting for help. Suddenly soldier became Sherlock and as he was dying, he said: 'It's a trick. Just a magic trick.' And then John woke up.<p>

He switched on a lamp at the bedside table and rubbed his eyes. It took him some time to realize he was not alone in the room. His uninvited guest moved the chair he was sitting on close to the bed. John breathed in, petrified. Eerie blue eyes were staring at him with incredible intensity and...sadness. John instinctively looked at the drawer where he kept his gun.

'Don't.' The guest said. 'I'm not here to hurt you.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Sebastian Moran and it's nice to meet you, doctor.'

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading and all your reviews! :)<strong>


	5. The Deal

**Sorry for the delays. I have already started writing next chapter so it should arrive earlier than than usual (I hope). :D**

**This chapter contains some stronger language and a tiny pinch of violence - you had been warned. ;)**

**Also - thanks for all your previous reviews, especially **_**Meredithriddle's**_** ;)**

**All the wonderfull characters belong to BBC and ACD.**

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><p>At first he thought it was Sherlock, but those were only slivers of dreams caught in his eyes. Less distinct cheekbones, sharp jawbone lines, short, slightly messy blonde hair and then the eyes. As bright and piercing as Sherlock's but burning with completely different kind of energy. John had always been good with that. What sometimes slipped even the mind of the greatest British detective, was obvious to him. After all John Watson was a doctor and he knew the best way to check the condition of the heart was looking into one's eyes.<p>

Eyes of the man, who introduced himself as Sebastian Moran, sure had seen a lot. At first they seemed to by stone cold and merciless but John knew to search deeper. I didn't take him long to find it: tiredness, hurt and sadness buried under mask of indifference.

'I don't know you. Did he send you?' He asked, though something told him it wasn't one of usual Mycroft's tricks. It didn't make sense.

'Asking questions, are we?' Sebastian replied quietly, as if to himself. 'It's all right.' He stated louder. His voice was deep and resonant. 'You deserve answers.'

'So?'

'No one sent me.'

'But you're here.'

'Yes, I am.'

'Why?'

'Because I wanted to.' That calm, laconic manner of speech started to irritate John. Sherlock would probably had already known who that man was deducing it from his jacket or brand of cigarettes.

'May I?' Sebastian asked pulling one out of his pocket.

'No. We...I mean...There's no smoking here.' If it would have been Sherlock asking - he would gladly allow him to smoke whole packet.

'Too bad.' His guest smiled and obediently put the cigarette back into his pocket. 'Any further questions or can we get down to business?'

'What?' John was confused. 'What are you talking about? I don't know what you've been thinking, breaking into my flat in the middle of the night, but I've had enough. Police will take it from here.' He leaned to reach his mobile.

'They're not much of a help lately, though, am I right?' John froze shocked by Sebastian's words.

'How did you know? He never saw anybody following him.

'Same way I know you have a miniature video camera hidden in your living-room'

'Wait...what?' John started to wonder if he was still asleep. This situation was getting more and more abstract.

'Don't worry - I sort of...disabled it.' Sebastian smiled once again. 'Now put the mobile down. Why would you want to call them?'

'Then tell me why wouldn't I. ' John felt a thrill running through his body - that man knew something.

'I can give you every evidence of Moriarty's existence on a plate.' Sebastian replied calmly, as if he had just been telling John about latest weather forecast.

'So can police.' John was struggling not to show excitement.

'Then why won't they make it public, doctor, tell me.' Sebastian hit the blind spot perfectly, leaving John speechless. He looked into his uninvited guest's eyes and knew he was right. For some unknown reason that man was telling the truth and really wanted to provide John with information about Moriarty.

'What's the price?' He asked after a while.

'The price?' Sebastian looked genuinely surprised.

'Money? Information? What are you looking for? I really don't have either, to be honest. So you might be just wasting your time.' John admitted hanging his head in sadness. The smile of understanding appeared on Sebastian's face.

'I think there's been a misunderstanding here. When I told you I wanted to be here, I meant it. I want you to have that information.'

'What kind of business is that?' John still wasn't convinced. There sure weren't many good Samaritans walking on Earth nowadays. 'Where's your gain in here?'

'You'll make the information public.' At first John thought it was a joke but Sebastian's face was completely serious. 'And the son of a bitch will be real again.' Sebastian turned his head away but John noticed his expression. Blue eyes weren't full of anger but rather longing and sadness - same sadness he noticed the moment he first saw Sebastian. There was an awkward silence for a while before John dared to speak again.

'You knew him.' He started cautiously. Sebastian shook his head.

'No. Nobody knew James Moriarty. Not even Sherlock Holmes, though he probably thought he did.' Sebastian smiled sadly. 'You don't get to know Jim, not even when you're his lover.' John looked at him shocked by frankness of that confession. There was no doubt Moriarty was the worst criminal world had ever heard of, but at the moment Sebastian might had been the only person, who fully understood John, who felt exactly the same. John couldn't help sympathizing with that man.

'You want to bring his name back to reality because if he remains Richard Brook, then your life with him had never happened, like in a dream. It sounds oddly familiar.' John smiled. 'It's a deal, then. I'll help you.' Saying these words was like a huge weight off his shoulders and made him feel happy for the first time since Sherlock's death. He had never been closer to clearing his friend's name.

'Don't be so quick. There's something you don't know yet.' Smile disappeared off John's face as Sebastian slowly leaned towards him. 'Sherlock Holmes didn't commit suicide-'

'I knew he didn't. He must had been protecting people who were close to him.' John interrupted.

'You're smart, doctor.' Sebastian nodded with approbation. 'There's one more thing, though. I did not only fucked Jim, I also carried a gun for him.' John eyes widened. 'The gun that was pointed at you that day. The gun that made him jump.' John snapped. Sebastian barely spoke those words when he jumped at him with his fists. They struggled for a while but Moran was stronger and faster so he quickly dominated the fight pinning John to the bed. He sat at doctor's trunk, holding his wrists tightly above his head. Adrenaline rushed into John's veins chasing away remnants of the sleep. Now he perceived everything with doubled speed. Smell of nicotine, dirt on an old leather jacket, quickened, shallow breath, slightly shaking hands and... a strange kind of moisture on his own belly. He raised his head as much as he could only to see a huge red stain on his pyjama. Drop by drop blood was falling from Sebastian's torso.

'I forgot to tell you one more thing.' Sebastian smiled, white as a sheet, sweat shining on his face. 'Coming here, I was also looking for a doctor.'

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><p>Sherlock pushed the door and immediately held his nose. A narrow fragment of a lane, which was used as a back of a nasty local bar, was a perfect place for a secret meeting - probably because of its terrible smell, frightening away any random pedestrians. He looked around. The place was scattered with garbage - rotting remnants of some fishes, scattered bottles and excrements. If it was a trap and Samaritan decided not to show any mercy after all, there was nobody here to help. In such a neighbourhood screams or gun shots weren't unusual and local inhabitants probably wouldn't have even bothered calling the police. Sherlock looked at his watch impatiently. Samaritan was almost 4 minutes late.<p>

And then he saw figures appearing form behind the corner - four hefty musclemen with a pistols in their hands surrounding the fifth person. The moment Sherlock saw Samaritan, he had already known Mycroft was right. Old, dilapidated suit, too big for its current owner, false golden watch, worn shoes. The man himself was lean, almost emaciated. He scratched his poorly shaved (as if in a hurry) beard constantly, trying to hide his aggravation.

This was no Brazilian crime boss but a tiny pawn in a serious game, posing as a big fish with his rookie bodyguards carrying guns older than themselves, probably not capable of a single accurate shot.

'Mister Holmes.' The man spoke with a strong accent trying to sound confident.

'I changed my mind.' Sherlock responded harshly. 'There's nothing here for-' He didn't finish the sentence because suddenly there was a big red hole in Samaritan's forehead and the man fell inertly on the ground. It was a trap. But not the kind he expected. Before they could have even reacted, two of the musclemen were lying dead on the ground. Remaining pair was shooting blindly, terrified by the whole situation. This was really bad. Sherlock started running down the alley expecting the worse. But as soon as he got to the main street he realised no one was chasing after him. From the precision of the shots he knew those must had been trained snipers, so there was no way they just lost him or failed to aim properly. The only rational explanation was: they weren't after him.

But why some skilled killers attended his secret meeting in a filthy backstreet of São Paulo and decided not to kill world's most brilliant (and only) consulting detective but some second-rate local leader and his crew? For this question he didn't have an answer.

When he got home it was already dark. Sherlock pulled his clothes off unceremoniously, tossed them on the floor and proceeded to the bathroom naked. The stink and dirt of the alley stuck to his skin and he desperately needed to get rid of it. Sherlock slowly sank into the water lightning a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and exhaled tardily, producing a large cloud of smoke. The last lead in his private investigation failed. What now? He strangely didn't feel like coming home yet. His own pride wouldn't stand admitting Mycroft was right all along (he imagined his brother with that repulsive smirk of his, saying 'I told you so'). And there was John, whom he - for his own good, but nevertheless - left behind and hurt so much. What will be John's reaction to his comeback, he wondered. Will he greet Sherlock with a smile and tears of happiness in his eyes (Sherlock was always amused by absurdity of that human reaction, but that sounded like something John would do) or rather first punch him in the face and hug later? But what if he will not want to even look at his detective? After all, just before he jumped, Sherlock made him believe last 18 months of their lives were one big, cruel lie.

During his time in São Paulo he occasionally came across some British magazines and the headlines weren't flattering. His fellow countryman were divided into those, who sympathized with poor Richard Brook, whose young and promising life was brutally ended by vicious fake detective, and those, who still believed in Sherlock's innocence. Of course the first group was considerably larger. And when tabloids got bored with rubbishing Sherlock's personage, they skipped to John Watson. His friend was bravely disproving all the accusations he could but that wasn't about the truth from the beginning - common people had always needed some entertainment and it was the perfect source.

If he comes back, he thought, John will have to go through the process again. Will he even believe in what have really happened? Sherlock wasn't sure of that. For the first time in his life he was afraid, that he irreversibly lost the person he cared for the most.

With a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, Sherlock slowly walked to the living room. It was probably one of the last hot weekends this year - outside the window city was vibrant with life, sounding with music and laughter. He sat himself comfortably at the sofa and opened his laptop but to his surprise the video stream wasn't showing anything. Just a dark screen. He checked for the signal, but everything seemed to be in order. It was just as if someone covered the video camera closely. It was impossible. Even if John had accidentally blocked the device with something, there should had been left at least a spot of light - Sherlock ensured it when he first installed it. But the stream was perfectly black. And that meant someone knew exactly what he or she was doing. The question remained - who?

Maybe Mycroft was right, after all, Sherlock admitted reluctantly. Maybe it was time to go home.

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><p><strong>That's all for now, but my head's boiling with ideas for what happens next :)<strong> **Thanks for reading and all your reviews/comments/ideas! :)**


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